


The Agony and the Ecstasy

by kosmickway (KMDWriterGrl)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KMDWriterGrl/pseuds/kosmickway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sara and Grissom continue what they started in "Heat Lightning."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Agony and the Ecstasy

The ride back to town feels like it takes forever. Catherine and Warrick came back with the Tahoe and we loaded the last of the equipment into it, doing our best not to look at each other with dopey grins.  I want to look at him, badly– I’m holding back a grin that feels like it could split my face in two– and more than that, I want to touch him. Everything about him suddenly looks incredibly hot, from the t-shirt sticking to his sweating skin to his wind-ruffled hair. Maybe it’s the heat that’s doing it– or maybe it’s just that it’s been such a long dry spell for me. Whatever the reason, everything about Gil Grissom is positively screaming sex. 

When we reach the lab, we unload the Tahoe together, clean and store the equipment, and take our samples to Greg, who has just arrived for night shift. Since Gris, Cath, Warrick, and I spent the entire day out on Mount Charles doing the leg work, it’s up to Nick, Sophia, Greg, and the rest of the lab team to do the in house testing. Ecklie has come in to cover for Gris, and the two of them disappear into Ecklie’s office to parcel out assignments, while Cath and I head into the locker room to throw our jump suits in the laundry and change into street clothes. 

“You look like the cat who swallowed the canary,” Catherine comments. She’s standing in front of the sink, scrubbing her face with a washcloth. “God, I feel like I’ve got half of the desert stuck to my face.”          

“Tell me about it.” I try to dodge the previous comment but she won’t let it go. 

“So, why the happy smile?”

“I’m not smiling.” The thing is, I am. I can see myself in the mirror as I pull on clean jeans and I am, in fact, grinning like a little girl who has one hell of a secret. 

“No, you’re not _smiling_ – you’re grinning. I’ve never seen anyone look so happy after pulling a double shift out in the desert in the middle of June.”

“It was just— a good day,” I finish lamely.

Catherine gives me an incredulous look. “Riiight.” She brushes her hair, then pulls it up into a high ponytail. “Keep your secrets then.” She pulls some lotion out of her bag and begins to smooth it into her neck and collarbone. “Warrick and I are grabbing a bite to eat. Do you and Gris want to come?”

Since “no, I think I’ll go home and let Grissom fuck me senseless” isn’t a proper response, I opt for a “no, thanks. I’m pretty beat,” instead.

“Have a good night then,” Catherine says pleasantly. “See you tomorrow.” 

As she leaves, I think I catch her winking at me in the mirror. 

***

Gris and I meet out in the parking lot. We’ve both showered and changed into street clothes and he looks even more delicious now than he had on top of Mount Charles. He smiles at me, then nods toward his car. He holds the door for me and I climb inside. He isn’t indecorous enough to kiss me in the lab parking lot but he does brush his hand across my thigh before closing the door and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

We don’t talk much as he drives back to his apartment. I don’t mind, since I’m forever over-talking around him and I’m almost afraid something I say will keep this from happening, will spark him to come to his senses somehow. He seems to sense the uncertainty in me, because he reaches over and lightly squeezes the back of my neck while we wait for a line of cars to cross the Strip, his thumb running up and down in a line of exquisite pressure. I drop my head forward to encourage him, imagine those incredible fingers working my entire body. I groan with pleasure and he stops. 

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” I open my eyes and smile at him. “Just entertaining some very nice thoughts, that’s all.”

“Thoughts that make you groan?”

“They’d make you groan, too, if you knew where they were headed.”

“And where was that?”

“Your bedroom. Your shower. Your living room floor. Your kitchen counter.” I finally give in and offer the silly grin that’s been trying so hard to burst free ever since we first kissed two hours ago. “All the places you could take me while your hands are doing incredible things to my body.”

He grins at me, his fingers playing gentle melodies up and down the back of my neck. “Where did this filthy mind of yours come from? I’ve always pictured you as wholesome and sweet.”

“Too many human physiology textbooks in my misbegotten youth. I happen to know all the places you can touch a man to drive him crazy.”

He arches an eyebrow at me. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”

“Don’t be so modest,” I admonish him lightly. “I bet you know all the places you can touch to drive a woman crazy.”

He dips his fingers between my legs and strokes my inner thigh in such a way that I find myself groaning again. 

“Just a few.” 

The light changes and he moves his hand back to the steering wheel, smiling very slightly. 

***

We’re barely inside the door to his apartment before his hands are on me and we’re kissing again, madly, mouths moving everywhere in a frenzy. I’d expected him to want to take things slowly but he’s as impatient as I am, his hips pressing against me, those remarkable fingers sliding under my shirt to touch my bare skin. 

“God, Sara, if I didn’t get my hands on you soon I was going to go insane.” He whispers it in my ear, low and intense, as his fingers take possessive inventory of the line of my torso, the flare of my hips. “I’ve imagined this a thousand times and I never thought you’d feel like this.” His mouth moves across my throat.  “Sweetheart, I’m going to make love to every inch of you before this night is over, I promise you that. Tell me what you want me to do _for_ you, and _with_ you ... and _to_ you. ”

I can barely believe it’s Gil Grissom speaking these incredible words to me. Only in my darkest dreams have I ever imagined he’d be doing this to me, whispering these things in my ear. And always it was simple, the things that he’d say– “I need you,” “Oh, god, I want you,” even “I love you.”  Never had I dared imagine he’d be this hot-blooded, this needful. It makes my pulse quicken and my head spin.

“Gil.” It’s the first time I’ve ever called him anything other than “Gris.” Even on the mountain-top earlier today when he’d kissed me almost completely breathless, it had been “Gris” that I’d murmured when I could formulate words. Gil is new, it’s different. “I– I want you to–“

He cups my face in his hands, turns all his attention on me. “Want me to what, sweetheart?”

“Let me catch my breath,” I stammer, dropping my forehead against his shoulder and taking a shuddering gulp of air. “I feel like I can’t breathe.”

He seems to come back to himself then, those formidable walls of control building themselves back up. It’s totally bizarre– I can actually FEEL him reverting to solid, unflappable Grissom who has the emotional range of a petri dish. He straightens; his back stiffens. He starts to drop his hands and it’s only through some fast moves on my part that I manage to keep them where they are. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, looking ashamed. “I didn’t mean to go so fast.”

Oh God. I don’t want him feeling guilty! Dammit, WHY can’t I talk to him like a normal person? 

I put my hand on the side of his face, turn him so that he’s looking at me.“Oh, no, don’t you _dare_ apologize. I want you to want me. I love the way you’re making me feel. It’s just–“ I pull back slightly and grin as I utter the most cliched phrase I can think of, “This is all so sudden.”

He laughs aloud and I can feel him starting to relax again. “It’s been building up for so long, Sara, this– hunger. Being alone with you is like a starving man being left alone in a bakery. I just want to gorge.” He touches my lips with soft, sure fingers. “I want to taste every inch of you,  feel every texture, memorize every dip and curve of–“ He deliberately looks me over, running his eyes up and down my body. His hands follow the same trail, making me shudder with longing– “this incredible body of yours.”

No man has ever spoken to me like this. No man has ever made my stomach wrench so hard, made me feel like I’m falling when I’m standing completely still. I slide my hands into his hair and pull his head gently down toward mine. 

“I want you, too. Your hands on me. Your mouth on me. I want you inside of me.” The thought of his body so close to mine, moving in sync with me, his warmth and strength concentrated on our conjoined bodies– my mind starts to short-circuit just thinking about it. I’m still feeling shaky but it’s obvious that feeling isn’t going away any time soon, so I throw feeling steadier and breathing easier to the wind and focus instead on kissing him senseless.

And then we’re both back where we were before– his hands moving over me, fast and with mounting pressure, but not rough; my legs quivering and my stomach feeling as though it’s playing host to a flock of butterflies. He starts to guide me across the room toward the hallway and the bedroom, still kissing me, his fingers plucking at the hem of my t-shirt. I stop our backward walk long enough to pull it off. His hands skim up and down my sides, and then there’s suddenly the feel of cool plaster against my back because he’s pushed me up against the wall and is on his knees, using his mouth to cover my stomach and abdomen with kisses. 

“Sara.”

His voice is ragged. He leans his cheek against my stomach and I can feel how hot his skin is, his breath coming in short pants. “Sara, I want you now.”

I slip my fingers into his hair, gently tug his face up so that he’s looking at me. “Then take me.” 

Having been given the permission he was seeking, he pulls his own shirt off, spreads it on the rug. He takes my hips in his hands and pulls me onto his lap. I straddle him and he pushes his hips up against mine, once, twice, again and again until I can feel his arousal against my thighs.

He lays me down on the rug, my bare back on his shirt, and he stretches himself out over me, his chest against mine, his hips moving against me in a rhythm that grows faster the longer we kiss and touch. 

This is nothing like I had pictured it, the times I had dared to imagine our joining. This is something out of a romance novel, a TV soap opera, something that doesn’t happen to women like me with men like Grissom. Women like me have safe weekly sex lying in bed between cool cotton sheets with men who are done in ten minutes and roll over to watch Leno. Something as lustily out of the ordinary as having sex on his living room rug while we’re murmuring outrageous promises and demands and endearments to each other is nothing I’d ever permitted myself to think of. 

He’s managed to pull off my jeans, I’m not entirely sure how, and his hands are exploring my legs, my thighs, my pelvis, every place his hands had never before had occasion to be. He’s still using those same fast strokes, not rough, but certainly enough to make my skin sing. I close my eyes, luxuriate in the feel of his remarkable hands, feeling like a cat being stroked into near ecstasy. Then I feel his fingers moving toward my center and my pulse stutters, jumps, nearly stops altogether. 

He’s slowed his hands and is using the gentlest of movements to awaken the nerve endings there. His fingers brush, hesitate, then slide inside, managing to hit just the right spot to make me moan and arch my back off the floor. He moves his fingers, exploring, learning the depth and shape of me, memorizing through touch. He splays a gentle hand over my lower abdomen, massaging in small circles, learning where I’m most sensitive and what’s most likely to make me squirm. 

His fingers are moving in and out of me at a faster pace, and I can’t stop my hips from moving in time with them. He bends over me, presses a kiss to my belly, works his mouth up my body until he’s lying on top of me, his fingers still playing over my heated core. He lies with his head over my heart, listening to the sounds of my breathing picking up, my moans and sighs as he works me to the edge of a staggering climax. 

I feel like a star has gone nova inside of me, it’s that heated and explosive when Gris’s clever fingers make me come. I’ve never been one to make noise during sex but I can’t help groaning aloud as the pressure builds and gathers and finally releases through my body. My hips come up off the floor and he uses the change in angle to press deeper, using pressure and the smallest hint of movement to prolong my climax. The hand that isn’t working incredible magic inside of me supports the back of my neck, rubbing out the tension that comes from arching so hard. Then it’s over and he’s murmuring soft words in my ear, his hands stroking the back of my neck. 

“Sara, sweetheart.” He presses his lips to my forehead, smiles when I look up to meet his eyes “Where did you go just then?”

“Felt like an orbit around Jupiter to me,” I manage. I’m still breathing hard and I feel wonderfully warm and alive. “Dear god, Gris, that was–“

He places a finger on my lips to quiet me. “--Nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you in about five minutes.” He strokes my hair back from my face. “But I’d rather do that on my bed instead of out here on the floor.”

Thank God. My lower back is starting to sting from the chafing of the oriental rug. 

“I just couldn’t wait another second– I wanted to feel you come under my hands.”

My god. Is this Gil Grissom talking to me? The stolid, sensible, virtually emotionless man who can face down the most stomach-turning crime scene without wincing, the man who watched his DNA lab explode without panicking, who saw Nick writhing underground in a box filled with fire ants and managed not to cry? This passionate man who’s kissing me like he’s always wanted to and telling me he can’t keep his control for the thirty seconds it takes to walk down the hallway and into the bedroom? _This_ is Gil Grissom? 

Apparently so. 

He picks me up– _picks me up_ like Rhett carrying Scarlett!– and carries me down the hall to his bedroom, leaving half our clothes on the living room floor. He lays me out on the bed, motions for me to turn onto my stomach, and smooths lotion on the chafed patches of skin on my back. Warming the lotion between his hands, he massages it into my arms and legs, everywhere his hands are going to fall until I’m slick and soft and feeling drowsy from the gentle warmth of his hands. 

“Feel better?” he asks. “More relaxed?”

“Mmm.” I roll on my back and stretch, deliberately sensual, and he looks delighted. “I feel amazing.”

“Good. I want you nice and relaxed. I’m planning on wearing you out.”

“Oh yeah?” I grab his hips– he’s still straddling my thighs– and pull him on top of me. “How do you plan on doing that, Dr. Grissom?”

He strokes my hair and lets his hand linger on my cheek. “By making love to you until you scream.”

“Nice thought, but I’m not a screamer.”

“By the time I’m done with you, you will be.”

“My, my!” I can’t keep a grin from spreading across my lips. “You’re pretty confident.”

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of how to make you moan, that’s all.” He bites the side of my neck playfully and, sure enough, I can’t hold back. “Want to see if I’m right?”

***

An hour later we’ve managed to drive each other to near insanity by using every sexual trick we know that doesn’t actually involve intercourse. We’ve been holding back, wanting it to be just right, and finally we’ve reached the moment when neither of us can wait any longer. We’re both warm and slick with sweat, so it’s only natural that we slide together easily. He cradles my body as if I’m something precious and rare, something easily broken, placing gentle kisses at the curve of my neck as he enters me. 

He’s large enough that I have to stop for a moment, reassessing the limits I can place on my body. I’d never thought of his size before, of how he would feel inside me, and the feeling of it makes my stomach wrench hard with hot desire. Gris rocks his hips, thrusting in slow, shallow strokes, letting me get used to the way he fills me.

“Just take a minute,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“It never felt like this with anyone else,” I murmur, and I’m not just saying it to bolster his ego. It’s true. I’ve had my share of sex, good and bad, and it’s never felt like this before. There’s some indefinable quality between us, something stronger and more lingering than anything I can remember feeling with my handful of past lovers. “I never felt this full, this--” I’m groping for words where none can be found and I finally just say, “Maybe I’m remembering it wrong.”

“No, dear, I don’t think you are.” He works his fingers up and down my spine, playing out erotic melodies. “Do you want to stop?”

“God, no. Just go slowly.”

“As slowly as you want. Tell me what feels good.” He pushes inside of me in gentle, easy thrusts, letting me learn the feel of our conjoined bodies, the rhythms of our lovemaking. Gradually I start to move with him, slowly, then faster, pressing my hips up to meet him every time he thrusts. I lock eyes with him, expecting to see the usual far-off look that shows he’s thinking of something else, maybe cataloguing his most effective moves, or taking note of my smallest expressions for future use. But he’s all there, completely in the moment with me, and he smiles when he sees me watching him, smiles and leans down to murmur a wicked suggestion in my ear.

I’m not prepared for how he’s making me feel, and I’m starting to feel a little afraid as he pushes me to peaks I’ve never been to before. I’d only given idle speculation to Gris’s prowess in bed, the sort of thing I’d wonder about after waking from an arousing dream or getting ready to drift off to sleep, lulled by my own night-dark fantasies of the two of us taking a forbidden moment in his office, on the lab table, or in the back of the Tahoe. But actual consideration of how good he might be or how long he might last had never entered my thoughts. 

I’m starting to wish they had, though, because he’s much better at this than I could have imagined and it’s starting to frighten me how high he’s able to take me. He’s like one of Anais Nin’s fantastical dark lovers, all clever, hot hands; skillful, probing tongues; and indefatigable libido.  

 My hands find his hips of their own accord, pull him closer, splay across his back. I hear myself gasping “Harder” and though I’m not entirely sure I can take it if he does push harder, I also know I won’t be able to stand it if he doesn’t. 

God in heaven, it’s unbelievable. I can practically feel my mind starting to fracture as Grissom takes my higher than I’d ever imagined possible, rocks me closer and closer to a precipice that’s going to be both heaven and hell to fall off of. I’m almost afraid to lose control in front of him, especially when I know it’s going to be this fierce. I can tell already that he’s going to make good on his earlier prediction– there’s no doubt about the fact that I’m going to scream.  

He rolls until I’m on top of him and my hands move on their own to press against his chest, both to keep my balance and to have something to dig my fingers in to. He’s watching my face, listening to me gasp and moan, and he picks the moment when I’m riding a wave of pleasure almost beyond bearing to push as deep inside of me as he can go. 

If the climax he’d given me earlier had been frightfully strong,  it’s nothing compared to the one beating through me now. It’s so enormous, so intense, I’m afraid I might not come through it intact. I’ve screamed, I know that much, because my throat feels raw. Everything else is molten sensation that pulses through me over and over in throbbing waves. 

 I feel him moving against me faster and harder and watch as his own climax tears through him. He’s gone to the same terrifying high place that I’d gone to and he’s not totally prepared to deal with it either. He pulls me closer, grips me hard like a man drowning, groans “Sara, baby, oh, Sara,” into my throat, his hips moving against mine hard enough to bruise. His face is a mask of exquisite rapture and when he looks at me I’m seeing the face of a man who’s had something deep inside of him ripped away, who’s been seared to a sharp, aching completion that both intoxicates and frightens him. 

I sink onto his chest then, lay my head in the curve between his neck and shoulder, breathing hard, not quite ready to give him my eyes. I feel completely hollowed out, shaken by the intensity of the emotions on his face and still trembling from that fierce climax. 

“Sara?”

His hands are moving over the small of my back, rubbing in soothing circles. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

I’m not quite ready to answer so I just murmur, “mmm” and bury my face in the side of his neck. 

“Lost all power of speech?” he jokes, still tracing up and down my spine.

“I don’t think there’s anything I can say that isn’t a tortured cliche,” I say, rolling carefully off of him and stretching out on the bed next to him. “That was– fill in your own adjective.”

He strokes my sweaty hair away from my face. I catch his hand in mine, kiss the inside of his wrist. His face softens and he pulls me closer. 

“That was an ‘I love you’ that couldn’t be vocalized.”

I hadn’t thought it was possible to feel ecstasy any more strongly than I just had with Grissom. Hearing those words from his lips proves me wrong. I bring my mouth to his, pour all of my energy into a devastating kiss. 

“So was that.”

END. 


End file.
